Saving a Bullsnake

After the third time, does it get the message?

I don’t know it’s the same snake.

Same location, more or less, on the asphalt road.

Same length, four feet or so.

Driving, approaching, I see the sun-glinted, blotched streak,

Sprawled from the road-edge

Soaking heat on a September day.

I stop the car

And turn on the flashers.

Keep striking-distance from it

If it’s a rattlesnake.

No rattle. No spade-shaped head.

Round head. Pointed tail. 

I toss a handful of weeds.

Air kick. Yell “move!”

It flicks its black tongue. 

Eyes me.

Stays put.

I move closer. Repeat.

Till it turns, winds into the grass.

I would stop a fourth time

Or fortieth.

Such is the way about things we care to save.

The things of the world call us to stop

So we stop, and then call us to stop

And give again,

So we do.

—David Markwardt